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Updated: May 18, 2025
"Hold up your face to the wicket," said the chaplain from within. "It's only me," whimpered Villon. "Oh, it's only you, is it?" returned the chaplain; and he cursed him with foul unpriestly oaths for disturbing him at such an hour, and bade him be off to hell, where he came from.
"You loved Francois de Montcorbier. Francois de Montcorbier is dead. The Pharisees of the Rue Saint Jacques killed him seven years ago, and that day Francois Villon was born. That was the name I swore to drag through every muckheap in France. And I have done it, Catherine. The Companions of the Cockleshell eh, well, the world knows us.
He shut the wicket and retired deliberately into the interior of the house. Villon was beside himself; he beat upon the door with his hands and feet, and shouted hoarsely after the chaplain. "Wormy old fox!" he cried. "If I had my hand under your twist, I would send you flying headlong into the bottomless pit." A door shut in the interior, faintly audible to the poet down long passages.
I think it gave Francois Villon his life; but since then friendship has walked the other side of the street." "And yet," La Mothe laid his hand on the elder man's shoulder, letting it lie there in kindliness, "you who so gibe at your best self are the Francois Villon of the ballad to Mary the Mother. How is that?" "Can I tell you? 'Je cognois tout fors que moy mesme.
Parnassus is but an Egyptian pyramid to be scaled with ladders, and by the aid of guides who serve for salary. Fancy has no wings to waft him among the stars. He sees in the Bible only its errors, never its wild beauty. For him Villon was only a sot and Anacreon a libertine. In his cosmos there's neither Garden of the God, nor Groves of Daphne.
René de Montigny stared at his interlocutor in a paroxysm of amazement. Here was his dearest secret loose on the lips of his questioner. It was the first time that he had ventured boldly to gaze into the face of authority and Villon returned his gaze defiantly. But there was no recognition in Montigny's eyes.
"Precisely ... I mean that for the next two or three years all the reputable magazines will not dare consider even a masterpiece from your hands." "In other words, if Shelley were alive to-day and were the same Shelley, he would be presented with a like boycott?" "If his manner of living came out in the papers yes." "And François Villon?" "Undoubtedly." "I'm in good company then, am I not?"
"I'm winning what I came to Amboise to win." "A snap of the finger," and Villon filliped his own noisily, "for what you came to Amboise to win. The garden grows more flowers than fleurs-de-lis, and better worth the plucking. Eh, my young friend? I think there is a certain tall, slim Madonna lily " "No Paris jests, Villon." "Trust Francois Villon! Jest?"
Both were preoccupied by the same desire, to win the other to his own way of thinking, but it was the more cautious elder who spoke first. He would appeal to the very affection Villon had gibed at. "Stephen, dear lad, with all my heart I grieve for you. Would to God it were anything but this.
Villon seated himself and taking up the instrument was touching it carelessly, when a light step on the grass arrested him, the sweetest voice in the world sounded in his ears, and he found himself addressed by the Lady Katherine de Vaucelles, who was attended by a number of fair court ladies. "I am the voice of these ladies to pray for a favour." Villon bowed low.
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